


Kiss With a Fist

by Nines35711



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Cheating, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, F/M, Immortality, Infidelity, Light Sadism, M/M, Masochism, Murder, Non-Explicit Sex, Other, Physical Abuse, Swearing, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-19 23:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16544828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nines35711/pseuds/Nines35711
Summary: Taylor gets his first taste of abuse in 1907. It sparks something in him that will affect him and his relationships for the next century.





	Kiss With a Fist

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER/WARNING: This work is fiction, and nothing else. I have not experienced physical abuse in my life, and therefore am not familiar with it. I do not expect those who have been physically abused to relate to this work. Please be warned of violence, strong physical abuse, blood, murder/death, unhealthy relationships, broken bones, and infidelity. Also, note that Taylor is immortal. I would never expect someone to recover from a broken leg so quickly in real life. Believe me, I am aware that it doesn't take the short amount of time portrayed in this work to heal from the injuries shown.  
> This is not trying to portray men or women as evil or abusive. Taylor specifically sought out people who he believed would hurt him. Men are not all abusive. Women are not all abusive. I'm not trying to say that non-binary folks are angels or whatever because the one non-binary character didn't hurt him. They simply were not a violent person and he miscalculated.
> 
> This work was mildly inspired by the song of the same name, Kiss With a Fist by Florence + The Machine.

Taylor’s first fight and first relationship was in 1907. He’d said something stupid to her. It was meant to start some yelling, just enough to bother the neighbors. It escalated past what he’d wanted out of it until she threatened him. He responded with a snarky comment and she slapped him. His jaw rattled from the impact. He hit back, and hard. They pushed against each other until he was shoved backward into a table. He lay in a pile of splinters, panting and smiling. It was exhilarating. Were all fights like that? He hoped so.

 

Next time, 1923, got more violent. It was someone else. She hadn’t lasted a month after that fight. Taylor punched and kicked and was punched and kicked until there were three holes in the wall. Shards of glass littered the carpet. He was pushed into it and made to bleed as they fucked the aggression out of their systems.

He’d been in complete agony for the next three days. Glass was plucked out with tweezers every now and then. The other pieces absorbed into his skin. It gave him a wonderful excuse to lay around on his stomach and do absolutely nothing, much to the anger of the man who’d given him the excuse.

 

1946 was worse. A plate was smashed over Taylor’s head, spilling so much blood that not even the magic of bleach could get it out of the carpets. He took a leg off of one of the chairs, brandishing it like a sword. It ended up in both of their stomachs twice, if he remembered correctly. When it was over, he coughed some blood onto the leather couch and lay there for a few months.

She never made it out of the apartment alive, unfortunately. He would have loved another dish in his skin. Eventually, he got bored of sitting around. He impaled himself one last time and left her body for someone else to deal with.

 

1967 brought a concussion and broken ribs. This one had been violent from the start. The first time he watched a maid’s toes get ground into the floor, he knew he needed that done from himself. He needed the man like a drug.

Some petty argument (and he’d definitely started it) went a bit further than he expected. He was grabbed by the hair and smashed violently into the wall. It happened over and over until he couldn’t tell exactly where the blood was coming from. He was hit with a chair until three cracks were heard, making him groan in pleasure. A bit of convincing got him fucked into the wall he’d broken with his face.

Taylor had some brain damage by the end of the fight, which lasted about three days. He kept it around for a bit until he got tired of pity. The punch to the sternum was well worth faking permanent damage for.

 

If he had to pick a favorite, it would have to be 1982, for sure. It was the absolute worst relationship he’d ever been in. There was nothing like it. Taylor had gone and ridden some stranger’s cock until he felt a little less lonely at home. When he was discovered to be a cheater, which he agreed with wholeheartedly, he was dragged off the bed and thrown on the kitchen floor. His leg was broken with a rolling pin. He lost a few teeth to that wonderfully meaty fist.

He wasn’t one to just take a broken leg and do nothing in return. Taylor pulled the man down to the floor and tore at his softest areas until his blood was soaking the blue shirt purple. A week later, he did it all over again with some other poor man. It felt like a victory to get his fingers crushed into dust.

 

In 1997, Taylor was in complete and utter agony. There was no violence this time. He’d taken to slamming his own head against tabled when they didn’t want to do it for him. He stabbed himself with a knife until he had almost covered the kitchen floor in blood. He was taken to the hospital. There, he found a wonderfully large needle. He stabbed it into his arm, much deeper than necessary. He sobbed for someone else to do it to the other wrist.

Instead, he was put in a hospital for people with mental issues. It pissed him off when he couldn’t even jerk off without someone thinking he was going to tear his own dick off. He couldn’t get what he craved: horrible, unending torture. He wanted someone to be so angry they threw a vase at him, wanted them to dislocate his shoulder while he was slammed into the ceramic shards. He got smiles and gentle touches instead. It made him cry for hours until the people realized he could not be helped.

Returning home, Taylor found everything disgustingly neat and a warm smile greeting him. He did his best to get a reaction, breaking frames for precious family photos, knocking dinner onto the floor, staining the white carpets with wine. Nothing. He screamed for hours on end until finally, it happened. They smacked his mouth, not too hard. It was immediately followed by a gasp and an apology. He took it as the perfect opportunity and hit back.

It didn’t work. All he got was a note the next day that they would be taking a break for a bit. If he shoved a broken wine glass through his throat, no one could blame him for it.

 

He was lonely in 2003, going from town to town and letting anyone with a strong enough grip take him. Taylor found absolutely nothing satisfying about getting his kneecap broken or his chest cut open with a piece of a beer bottle. He finally found somewhere to settle down.

She was pretty and young, making him feel like an old man, despite his similar appearance. She spoke with the slang of the decade. He was often confused by it, but accepted it because she could pack a punch. Sometimes, if she got really angry, she’d push him to the floor and pummel him until he was weak and gasping for breath. She accepted that he liked it rough and did her best to really hurt him when he actually asked for it.

Taylor found that wonderful array of bruises that decorated his torso to be fascinating. He’d push on them when he felt lonely. It made him tremble and moan when he took something hard to them. He found a perfect person to hit him, and he didn’t even need to mess up the lovely white carpets or break a pretty vase to piss her off. He would be content for the next forty or so years.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not point out that this was unnecessarily violent, an inaccurate portrayal of abuse as you've experienced it, disgusting, or any other words you could use to describe this work. I will not respond to it. Corrections on spelling and grammar are welcomed, as well as constructive criticism. Hate will not be tolerated.
> 
> To contact me privately, please email me at jruger2003@gmail.com. I will respond as quickly as possible. If I do not respond within three days, please resend the email as it's likely that I did not receive it by then.


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